


Stupid, Wonderful Sentimentality

by Keroanne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Guardian Angel AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keroanne/pseuds/Keroanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a guardian angel.  John is who he guards.  It's against the angel law for a guardian to reveal themselves to who they work so hard to protect, but it would seem that with John he just can't resist...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid, Wonderful Sentimentality

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic please don't hate me I tried this was a gift fic for someone here U GO

John did not know that Sherlock existed, and that was precisely the way he liked it. He wasn't interested in making his presence known, not to him, not anyone. After all, only really bad guardian angels told their humans that they existed, and Sherlock was not a bad guardian angel. In fact, he considered himself one of the absolute best, which he supposed wasn't that hard, but still.

John was a pediatrician and had wanted to be one since he himself was a child. He was very good at his job and was always good to the children. Sherlock almost considered John himself to be a guardian angel, the way he looked after people.

The middle aged man was married to a beautiful woman named Mary, and they had two children, a boy and a girl. Hamish was a smart boy, not half as reserved as his sister, however. He was somewhat mischievous, but never played any major pranks, mostly preferring to mess with his sister. Amanda was much more quiet, preferring to read and write versus anything else. They were both wonderful children, kind and sweet. There was very few moments of contention within their family, which was just how John liked it.

However, even so, Sherlock knew there was bound to be some at some point. He wasn't sure when or how it would happen, but he knew it would happen. Mary knew as well, despite her not saying anything. John had a very slight idea of what was going on between them, not fully understanding what was going on.

You see, Mary was in love with John, but John wasn't in love with Mary. He had tried for years and years to love her just as much as she loved him, but it seemed to be impossible. She was extremely aware of this, but said nothing about it, wanting him to come to her first. She didn't want him to leave, but she was willing to let him go if he asked to leave. She loved him enough to do that for him, at the least.

Mary knew why John had never loved her, but he didn't. You see, all of his life, Mr. John Watson had been fighting his homosexual tendencies. He tried very hard to force himself to be straight, going so far as to be in a committed relationship with a woman for almost fifteen years now. He honestly had no idea that he was repressing these feelings, but Sherlock knew and it was extremely irritating for him. In fact, most days he just wanted Mary to hit him over the head because he was being such an utter fool about the whole situation.

Then again, Sherlock thought to himself grumpily, am I not a great fool as well? I should have done something about it years and years ago. Now we're stuck at an impasse where Mary wouldn't say anything and John won't realize anything. I should have pushed him a long time ago...

Sherlock had taken care of dozens upon dozens of humans. He honestly could say that he had no idea what was so special about John Watson, why he couldn't force the man into being unhappy and knowing the truth about himself. There was nothing, nothing special at all about the man. He was an average man who would live an average life. In the end, he had his wife would get a divorce and he would end up alone. He would date some men and have a couple of one night stands, but never marry. That's just the way things were.

So, as Sherlock sat beside him in the car (invisible, mind you), he couldn't quite figure out why he couldn't break his gaze from the other man's face. It was a tired face, which made sense, being that he had been working later shifts lately while keeping his morning ones. It was early in the morning, and had begun lightly snowing. It was nearing Christmas, so the street lamps were covered with ribbons and bows.

It was only a second that the blond-gray haired man took his eyes off the road, looking down and reaching down to grab his tea. Sherlock looked out towards the road, seeing that in the other lane a large truck began to skid on the ice, coming right at John. Had he been looking up, he could have easily swerved away, but he wasn't looking and he wasn't about to. He would be dead in about three seconds if he didn't swerve now.

A guardian angel's form is tall and usually slender, with a wingspan of about thirty feet. Sherlock knew that, being over six feet tall and having a wingspan of about thirty two feet, he would probably end up shattering all of the glass within the car, possibly even denting some of the metal. Still, there was no time to waste; John would die if he didn't change into his physical form and turned the wheel.  
Sherlock's black wings blasted through windows of the car, feathers swirling all about. He grabbed the wheel and swerved the car away, one hand atop John's. For all of a moment, John was looking up to Sherlock with wide eyes and the black haired man was looking back to him. Wide blue eyes met pale green ones, mouth opened in shock. Then again, who wouldn't be in shock if a winged man suddenly appeared in your car and saved your life?

As soon as John hit the streetlamp, Sherlock disappeared again. The airbag hit John, but the most he would suffer from was a broken arm or ribs. He would end up being just fine. Sherlock pulled away from the car, watching as someone pulled out their phone as another tried to get John out of the car. He managed to get out just fine, stumbling a bit before sitting.

Sherlock watched as, with wide eyes, John picked up a black feather and twirled it between his fingers curiously. Despite that he was clutching his chest and looked in a lot of pain, he still continued to look at it, not fully understanding. It was at that moment that Sherlock knew that he had made a grave mistake. John knew he existed.  
John ended up having only some bruises, no fractured bones or internal bleeding. Still, Mary raved over him, completely worried about him. John insisted he was fine, but ended up having to take the day off anyhow. Throughout all of this, he held onto that black feather, as though he was scared it would disappear if he did not.

John did not speak of Sherlock to Mary or his children, but he thought about him often. He would often space out, thinking about the angel. He kept the feather in a book, pulling it out every once in a while to stroke it and make sure it still existed. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would say that the doctor was in love with him. But, no, that was impossible. They had met once and that was all. Still, Mary seemed to notice the change within him as well, wondering the same thing. Finally, it seemed that she could wait no longer, and she decided to ask him about the feather.

“John, whatever is that feather?” she asked one night, laying in bed as he read next to her.

He seemed to freeze up at that point. “What feather?”

“Don't play dumb,” she huffed. “The black one you keep in that book. You take care of it like it's some sort of beautiful treasure. Where did you get it and why on earth do you take such good care of it?”

John was quiet for a moment before he finally responded, “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Tell me,” she insisted.

John was quiet for a moment. “When I got in that car crash a week ago, I should have died, Mary. I wasn't looking up when someone started swerving into my lane. All of the sudden, I felt the car swerving. I looked up and saw... this... this man. He was protecting me, Mary. He saved my life. But... you see... he had wings. They broke through all the windows. That's why those were broken. As soon as I hit the lamp post, he disappeared. He was gone, just like that.”

Mary was quiet for a moment before she responded. “John, are you saying that an angel saved you?”

“I don't know what I'm saying,” he said, sounding mildly frustrated. “I can hardly believe it myself. But that feather... it's definitely the same color as his wings were. I don't know how to explain it properly, Mary. I just... every time I look at it, he feels real to me. I want to meet him again so badly, and I can't even begin to describe how I'm feeling. I just... I feel like, if I don't see him again, then I'll really regret it.”

Mary fell silent at that point. Sherlock could read what she was thinking, and she was thinking not that he was crazy, but that he was in love. After all these years, he had finally fallen in love. Sherlock found that to be preposterous. He was an angel, first of all, and secondly, they had only met once! There was no such thing as love at first sight. True, there was attraction, but definitely not love.

She decided, in the end, to wait until after Christmas to confront him about it. There was no sense bringing unnecessary drama around for Christmas. However, despite everything, she found herself often sad. She tried to keep that warm smile on her face for the children, but she knew it wouldn't be long that they stayed together. John would realize he was gay, and they would decide that it was for the best that they split up. She had to keep these moments that they were together as precious as possible, because she now knew they were limited.

It was two days after Christmas that Mary finally decided to talk to John about it. The children had gone to bed and John was watching some stupid television drama. 

Really, he was daydreaming about Sherlock, but Mary didn't need to know that. She had made them both a cup of chamomile, setting it on the coffee table in front of him. He didn't seem to register it, not even when she cleared her throat.

Mary lightly touched his arm, which finally brought him out of his reverie. He looked to her and gave her a warm smile. “Oh. Thank you, dear.”

She looked to him seriously at this point, eyebrows drawn together. “John. We need to have a talk.”

The man shifted slightly, feeling uncomfortable with the look she was giving him. There was obviously something seriously wrong, but he honestly could say that he had no idea what it could be. She had been acting somewhat strange since the car crash, although he couldn't quite figure out why. He didn't really recognize that he himself had been acting strange.

“John, I think we both know that this wouldn't have lasted forever,” she said with a sigh, placing her hands on her knees and closing her blue eyes. “I love you dearly, but I've known for many years that you would never feel the same.”

“Mary,” he began, sounding in pain.

“No, please don't. It's easier this way. I've prepared myself for years. I've known for so long, John, but I couldn't bear to lose you. I loved you so dearly, but I know now that it's wrong for me to keep you here any longer.”

“Mary, I don't know what you're talking about,” he sputtered, eyebrows pinched together. “I love-”

“No, you don't,” she said, smiling faintly. “Well, maybe as a friend, but not romantically. You don't look at women with any interest, love. I know you've tried to push it down for so long, but I know, I know that you aren't interested in women.”

John gulped at this, staring. Sherlock attempted to read his mind, but found that it was blank, not understanding. He honestly could not comprehend what his wife was saying. Which, he supposed, after forty years of pushing it down, made sense. This man just had no clue.

“Now, I honestly can't say if you really saw an angel or not, John, but I know that whoever that man was, you fell in love with him. You daydream about him so often that it's become really difficult to even speak with you most days. You feel this insistent need to meet with him because you care about him, John. And because I care about you, I want you to find him. I want you to be happy. I really just...” Her voice got soft, clasping her hands together and looking down. “I think it would be best if we were separated for now. Or at least didn't sleep together. You need to find this man. You need to become happy. Please.”

John bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave her. If he truly was in love with this black haired angel, he didn't want to be.  He had children, he had a wife, he had a home... he couldn't leave them, not for someone he didn't even know.

“I'll sleep on the couch,” he said quietly. “I don't want to leave yet, Mary. I love you all too much. It pains me so much to even consider leaving you. But if you think it's what's for the best...”

“I do,” she said simply.

He nodded before he broke down crying.

Three weeks later, in the middle of January, John moved out. A week after that, they got divorced. However, full visiting rights were allowed and because he lived close, the children could stay over every other week and still go to school. They didn't understand what was going on or why, and John secretly wished he could live like that. He didn't want to know what was really going on. He would have rather never met that angel. He wanted to go back to pretending he could love Mary. It was so much easier than being on his own.

Sherlock found it painful to watch him reading all alone in that little flat on 221 B Baker Street. That week where he didn't have anyone was probably the most horrible week of John's life, and it happened every other week. He would drown himself in tea, warm baths, books, and crap telly. Anything to distract himself from the fact that he was all alone now.

Finally, John did something different one day. He began writing. Not writing just anything, however, but writing a letter. It was a short letter and he didn't address it to anyone. He folded up the parchment and wrote on it, “To The Angel,” before heading to bed. Sherlock knew that he should not read it, should not open it, should not even look at it, but he found himself unable to stop. Making sure his wings were as folded in as possible, he allowed himself to take his physical form.

_“Dear the angel who saved me,_

_I honestly cannot say whether you truly exist or not. However, if you do, and you end up reading this, I would just like you to confirm that you do exist. You see, I've started to doubt myself. I'm so utterly lonely and I can't think of anything to fill the gaps. I try to be happy, but I just... I'm so tired and lonely._

_Please. Just please exist.”_

Sherlock was uncertain whether he should respond or not. On one hand, it was a dangerous move. He could very well get in trouble with the higher ups and have himself be stripped of his wings. However... his first job was to make his human happy and live. If John got too depressed, it was entirely possible that he could take it out on himself somehow or another.

In the end, he wrote on the letter and carefully plucked a feather that was already fairly loose, placing it on the table before disappearing once more. He felt horribly guilty about it, because he didn't want to get thrown out of the order of angels. He was so good at his job, and now this one human was messing him up. He couldn't even begin to explain how utterly frustrating it was to have John come into his life and ruin everything he had worked so hard to build up. He was going to be in big trouble if it went further than this, but he honestly knew that it would. This was a downhill struggle, one that he knew he would have no choice but to lose at some point, no matter how hard he fought.

John woke up fairly early, instantly walking over to the letter. He gaped slightly as he saw that it was open, written on, and there was a feather. It was the exact samecolor as his other one. The middle aged man grabbed onto the letter, furiously reading the handwritten text as though his life depended on it.

_“Dear John,_

_My name is Sherlock. I'm a guardian angel. You really aren't supposed to know that I exist, but I do. I messed up that time and you ended up seeing me, which was a big problem. You see, humans aren't supposed to know we exist. If the people we take care of find out we exist, we get stripped of our wings and become human._

_I think the uppers are starting to get an idea that you know that I exist, and if we keep talking, I'll surely become human. I can't do that. I've taken care of at least a hundred humans before you, and I care for my job. I can't possibly lose it now._

_Please, I know your mind. Don't end your life. You're precious. Don't go.”_

John stared at the letter for quite some time, his hands trembling. Finally, in a whispered tone, he managed out, “Sherlock? Your name is Sherlock... and you really exist? I...” It was then that a single tear dripped down his face and he broke out in a grin. “I'm so happy... I thought I was alone this whole time, but I wasn't. You've been here this whole time. Sherlock... Sherlock...”

Something about how John said his name made the angel feel somewhat uncomfortable. Well, maybe not uncomfortable, but... strange, strange most definitely. His heart seemed to beat somewhat faster and he felt a tightness in his chest. He watched him curiously, not fully understanding why it felt so wonderful to have John say his name. It shouldn't feel this wonderful, not by a long shot, but it did. He felt light, almost, and an inexplainable joy rushed through his body as the other man continued to whisper his name.

It was then that the horrific realization came to him. Why he never was quite able to pull his eyes away from the other man, why he cared for him so much, why he never wanted to leave his side, why, why, why... it was because he loved him. Not just as a friend, but he was in love with him.

The terror that overcame him at that moment was incomprehensible. Not only had Sherlock never been in love, but he was in love with a human. By being in love with a human, he would have two horrible choices to live with: watch John grow old and die while never being able to hold him, or grow old and die with him. Both of these options seemed horrible to him. He didn't want to have to pick between either of them. Perhaps he could find a way to make John into an angel? No, no, that was impossible, it wasn't up to him. Besides, if he was to be an angel, he would have done it a long time ago.

That evening, John left another letter for Sherlock. It was carefully written and quite a bit longer than the last, having him yammering about how glad he was that Sherlock existed and how he would be so happy to see him again someday, even if it wasn't right then. He was eager to know how long Sherlock had existed, how long he had been watching over him, how large his wings were... there were so many questions, but Sherlock answered them all carefully, letting him know that he had been around since about Adam and Eve, saying he had been there for John's birth, saying his wings were just very large... there was so much to say, so much to get to know about him. It was very odd that he was talking about himself. It had felt like such a long time before he had said anything about himself...

Writing letters to each other became a nightly business. Sherlock found himself enjoying it a lot more than he expected to, but he supposed that was only to be expected, considering he was in love with the other man. He wasn't entirely sure, but he was beginning to think that John was in love with him as well. The way he smiled so warmly at the letters, the way he had cheered up... it made feel Sherlock feel unexplainably happy.

Sherlock knew that this simple happiness could not last, however. He could feel the eyes of the angel council on him and John so often. They had to know by this point, and they would kick him out soon enough. They would rip off his wings, and he would become a human.  
  
Somehow, however, this was starting to sound like not such a bad idea. He hated not being able to show himself to John, he hated not being able to hold him, not being able to kiss his forehead so gently... ugh, this was not good, not good in the least. He was beginning to get so very sentimental. John was turning him into a ball of gushy feelings, which was so completely and utterly disgusting. He shuddered even as he daydreamed about running his hands through the other man's hair.

The last letter that Sherlock ever received from John was simple. It only held four words, but those four words shook him to the core. He held the letter with trembling hands, staring at it with wide eyes. His hands ran over the words again and again and again, as though he couldn't quite believe that they were really there. His slender, pale fingers lightly traced over the ink, mouthing the words.

_“I love you, Sherlock.”_

“I really do.” The voice made Sherlock jump and he turned quickly to see John standing there, holding onto doorframe.

Sherlock's mouth opened slightly. His instantaneous reaction was to disappear, but with John looking at him with those soft eyes... he just couldn't do it. All he could do is stare at the other man, his breath caught in his chest as he looked into those blue, blue eyes. He gulped softly before he finally managed to find his voice.

“John... I... me... I love...” For the first time in his life, Sherlock couldn't combine his words together to work properly. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a deep breath before attempting to speak again. “I feel the same, John.”

It was that moment that he was swept away, swept away to the council room. The council room was large, with chairs that were probably over a hundred feet tall each.  They were arranged in a half circle, the smallest ones being on the outer edges, getting progressively taller as they made their way to the middle. There was nine chairs, as there was nine council members, each of the chairs being white. The nine angels were garbed in white, their pale wings spread out evenly. The building was white with huge columns behind him, as well as golden doors. It was beautiful, but it was not a place that you wanted to be brought as an angel. The black haired angel slowly looked up to the tallest chair, knowing who would be sitting there.

“So, Sherlock, it seems that not only have you revealed yourself to your human, but it seems that you've also fallen in love with him,” Mycroft said, hands gripping the arm rests of his chair tightly. “You know what this means, don't you?”

Sherlock slowly opened his mouth, but was unable to find his voice for the second time that day. In response, he decided to just nod, eyes squeezed shut.

“I'm afraid we can no longer allow you to continue as an angel, Sherlock. You've endangered our entire community by simply existing at this point. You need to have your wings removed and become a human,” Mycroft said simply. “Otherwise, I fear that you will bring more despair than can be fixed.”

Sherlock nodded. “Then, please, I beg of you, be quick of it and send me to earth. I can wait no longer.”

“It will be painful,” Mycroft said gravely. “I fear for you, brother.”

“Don't fear. I chose this path, and it is mine to walk,” Sherlock said, trying to sound more brave than he felt.

Now, Sherlock had seen many angels get their wings removed before. It was a painful process to say the least. There had been not a single angel who did not scream and cry as they were ripped off. In fact, more often than not in the old days, angels would bite off their tongues and have to be silent as humans because angels refused to reattach them, saying it was part of their punishment. Luckily, they gave them leather to bite down on nowadays.

As Sherlock was chained to the pole, he could only think of John. Would he be worried about him? Would he care that he left? Would he be angry? What would he say when he found out that Sherlock's wings were gone? He had treasured them so much, cared for them so dearly... he had always talked about them in his letters, how he would love to stroke them and burrow his face into them. He would be so disappointed when he found out that he would never really be able to...

The pain was excruciating. Imagine someone ripping off your arm slowly, with greater and greater force. Sherlock was proud to say that he did not cry, but he did scream. All that kept him going throughout it was the thought of his beloved John. Being able to see him again was all that mattered at this point. He would endure any amount of pain that he had to in order to see that man again.

He was bandaged as soon as it was over, but he could not think, could not feel, could not possibly understand what was going on. He was dizzy and felt like he was going to vomit from the utter pain that he was experience. He felt healer's hands begin sifting through the blood to heal the wound, but they weren't being fast enough.

He could feel himself losing consciousness, but he fought to remain awake, to see these last glimmers of heaven. He would probably never see it again, so he needed to remember everything, everything he cared about, everything he ever knew...

He felt a hand upon his forehead and he looked up to see the foggy image of Mycroft looking down to him. He could hear the words, but, at the time, he couldn't quite make sense of them. “Please, brother of mine... be safe. Live on happily. Love as well as you can, and sleep...”

Somehow, the words lulled Sherlock to back into the ever beckoning darkness. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, allowing everything to go dark. In his mind, he said his final goodbyes to the world he once knew, hoping that the next life he would lead would be as beautiful as the one he had gotten to live before.

When he awoke, he was wearing naught but a blanket and some bandages. He looked about and noted that he was in John's house, laying on the man's couch. All of the books he usually kept on it had been pushed to the floor and the blanket he was wearing was one that John usually kept on his bed. It was bright, probably about midday, and he could honestly say that he had no idea how long he had been sleeping. He attempted to sit up and groaned in pain, falling back.

“You shouldn't move,” John called from the kitchen. “You've been hurting quite a bit, Sherlock. You slept most of the day away.”

Sherlock reached over his shoulder, touching his back and wincing in pain. “... they're really gone. I'm human.”

John appeared at that moment, holding two cups of tea in his hands. “Yes. And I'm afraid that's my fault, isn't it?”

“No...” Sherlock said with a sigh, rubbing his face. “It's not, John. I was the one who kept talking with you. I knew what would happen. If anything, it's my fault. Don't worry so much.”

John placed the mug of tea on the coffee table, lightly kicking some of the books out of the way so he could sit next to him. He sipped at his tea, staring at Sherlock with those soft blue eyes. “So?”

“So what?” Sherlock mumbled, glancing to him.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Sherlock said simply, looking up to the ceiling. “I suppose I'll have to find a job and a flat. Although, how I'm going to do that...”

“You can stay here,” John said automatically.

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled faintly. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

John smiled right back and hesitantly put the mug on the coffee table. He placed his hand over Sherlock's, who jumped very slightly at the touch. It reminded him that this was the second time they had touched. Come to think of it, wasn't that time the same hands? Of course, the black haired man's had been the one to cover the other's, but other than that... somehow it seemed suitable to have that be their second touch.

Perhaps new beginnings wouldn't be as awful as he thought they would be. Well, after all, not much could be horrible now. Now that he had John, that is. As long as he had John, he didn't need anything else.

With the faintest of smiles, he took John's hand and gave it a tiny squeeze. “I love you, John Hamish Watson. I always have and I always will. Thank you for being mine.”

Stupid sentimentality.

Stupid, wonderful sentimentality.


End file.
